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THE STORY OF A POET

THE STORY OF A POET

Amidst the hot air stiffened with dust and standing in columns
The exhausted sun was blushing feebly
The victorious heroes in glittering helmets
We’re leaning on their tired horses with manes dangling down
Having His Gher-residence in place in no time
And the sacred Emblem enshrined
His Highness Bogdo felt by his heart
A glint of thought, a very unusual one
Hardly having shaken off the dust from the long ride
The Highness announced his Order.
Tracing the relay-service ways
Feathered letters went off on this day
To invite starry poets who
Flush with talent and wisdom.
Passing high gulches of hundreds of peaceful mountains
And fording shallows of thousands of transparent rivers
On their strong horses with worn out and inflamed hooves
The poets rushed down to the residence
In flossy white ghers lined up in rows
Meals of thousand sheep were generously being offered
Best of wine and airag were pouring out
With maidens and servants running to serve.
On the junction of the three famous rivers
Three hundred wise men had come together
Not to put their goblets down for more than three months
The sun was given no rest for more than three months, too.
Drinks that were served in streams for months
Had to diminish, however, as buckets do cease
And, the feast that shook the world was put an end, finally,
To let His Highness-Bogdo declare his Order.
Two hundred and seventy of the poets who were
Invited to the extraordinary feast on the occasion
Of moving His Highness’ residence into a new place
Were given golden brocades and silk as reward for their writings
With gratitude and blessing they took the awards
Soon to ride back to their homes.
While everybody wearing a deel was consumed with joy
Thirty poets who were tender hearted, however,
Had to go to jail for three months for they wrote
Poems which were too sad and miserable.
Humming sorrowful songs to each other’s ears
They were at death’s door because of sorrow and starving
As a suffering poet is not
To compare with anybody else
Even birds were picking their feathers
Crying, and piercing their breasts
While the poor poets were still grieving
In their corner of the dark jail
While three of the poets not giving up their writing brushes
Kept composing their songs of happiness all the time
Twenty seven poets were set free, finally,
And were awarded with golden brocades, too
To be seen off with respect for faraway trips home.
The strong-willed three poets
Who passed the Emperor’s tests
Were granted on golden throne
And each of them was bestowed a crown of fame.
When days and months passed away and
Things took their own paths
One of the poets sank his talent
Into the residence’s soft seat and comforts
Another one had become a royal poet
Who made his poems in favor of the Masters only
Spending all his time in praising their privileges, excessively, and
Entertaining the Queen and the Princesses.
Only one of the poets
Remained true to his own way of making poems
And was seen as defective by the knights for this
Nevertheless, proceeding in search of truth.
When horsemen mounted their horses on military campaign
He was mounting his steed of poetry
Looking at the mountains that turned dozy and hazy
And the sky with lost and confused clouds.
As the earth was rolling over
And the entire nation had no time to rest
He was writing about truth, tirelessly.
To dismantle injustice done to whatever sacred,
And give birth to a true Mongolian poet
Who would praise the real story of the horsemen
Before the Holy Banner - nine-feet tall
To the people - virtuous and fair
A true Mongolian poet to sing in his people’s language
And stay loyal to creativity and strive
As one who devotes a whole life for this heavenly deed
To reach the nutriment of poetry and to be forgotten in the end.
As it always has been not easy to distinguish the unusually real jade
From among the endlessness of earthly colors
It’s been not easy, too, to reckon
The real talent and wisdom which is divine and high.
Thus, who knows, how many have succeeded to write
The best of the great epics of Blue Mongolia
The precious traces of which
The funniest jokes were not able to abolish.

Translated by Sh.Tsog
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